


The Homecoming

by Tindomerelhloni



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken John, Depressed John, Feels, Grieving John, Homeless John, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Feels, Johnlock Fluff, Like.. really suck, M/M, Parentlock, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, god i suck at tagging, married, marriedlock, sherlock comes home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had left Mycroft's office in a flurry of anger and had immediate gone in search of John. Though observant as he was, he had nearly passed over the doctor. Between the full, unkempt, beard and the weight that he'd lost, John was nearly unrecognizable. If it hadn't been for the way he sat, stick straight on the bench in true military style, he might have missed him. </p><p>Sherlock watched from across the street for a short time, all the while fingering the silver ring that adorned his left hand. That had been 45 minutes ago, and despite giving John an abridged version of the past two years, John still didn't show signs of recognizing his husband. </p><p>"John?" Sherlock stood and stepped back a few paces, not wanting John to feel threatened. "Stay here. I'm going to get you a hot meal. Nod if you understand."</p><p>John moaned and continued to rock back and forth on the bench while worrying with the silver ring on his finger that perfectly matched Sherlock’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have not gone over this for errors. I'm far too tired, and will be too busy the next few days, so I wanted to post this now. Please feel free to leave a comment if you see anything terribly wrong.

Steel blue eyes regarded him with such intensity that for a second Sherlock allowed a small flicker of hope to bubble in his chest. However, just as quickly as it was kindled it was snuffed out and left him feeling cold and defeated. He hung his head for a second before he looked up and looked at the worn man in front of him.  
  
His legs burned and he longed to stretch them and his back ached. He’d need to have stronger bandages put on next time. He could feel the stitches tearing as well.  He'd been crouching on his haunches for so long now, that they were beginning to tremble with exhaustion, and if the thought about it, his back ached. And the cold did nothing to help his situation. But he wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t move, didn’t want to spook his target, who was already sitting on the edge of the bench.  
  
"John?" Sherlock tentatively placed a hand beside John's leg on the cold bench. He noted John’s clothing with no small amount of heartache. They were thin, worn, and hardly suitable for the coming winter months. As Sherlock looked up and down John’s body the thin man rocked back and forth, moaned something incoherent and scooted away.   
  
"Alright. Don't want to be touched." Sherlock raised his hands in surrender as Mycroft's words of warning echoed in his head. _"It is just possible he won't be happy to see you."_ The idea had seemed preposterous, that is it had until Mycroft revealed that during his absence John had been living on the streets. Even despite Mycroft ensuring him that he'd seen that John always had a fair sum of money in his account.   
  
This revelation had prompted a heated argument between the two brothers. Sherlock yelling about how he should have been informed of John’s downward spiral while Mycroft simply insisted that it telling him would have only served to slow Sherlock down.   
  
Sherlock had left Mycroft's office in a flurry of anger and had immediate gone in search of John. Though observant as he was, he had nearly passed over the doctor. Between the full, unkempt, beard and the weight that he'd lost, John was nearly unrecognizable. If it hadn't been for the way he sat, stick straight on the bench in true military style, he might have missed him.   
  
Sherlock watched from across the street for a short time, all the while fingering the silver ring that adorned his left hand. That had been 45 minutes ago, and despite giving John an abridged version of the past two years, John still didn't show signs of recognizing his husband.   
  
"John?" Sherlock stood and stepped back a few paces, not wanting John to feel threatened. "Stay here. I'm going to get you a hot meal. Nod if you understand."  
  
John moaned and continued to rock back and forth on the bench while worrying with the silver ring on his finger that perfectly matched Sherlock’s.   
  
"Just... Stay here." Just across the street was a Chinese restaurant. The very one John had purposed to him in two and a half years ago. “Please, wait for me?”John’s eyes flitted up, meeting Sherlock’s, cold and expressionless. “Just, wait for me?” Sherlock studied John, wondering if it was wise to leave him, worried that he might disappear the moment his back was turned.

Time had proven that John was not a flight risk, but that was then. And this was now. Clearly some things were different now. However it was clear that he was still not a man to be forced into anything. If Sherlock were to get John to come home, it would have to be of his own free will. And that started with trust. John regarded him with wary eyes but gave Sherlock the slightest of nods.

“Right. I’ll just be there.” Sherlock pointed across the street and with a heavy heart he added gently. “I love you.” John didn’t show any signs of being affected by the proclamation, he didn’t even blink, instead his eyes settled on the glass front of the restaurant and stared hard at it.

Sherlock returned as quickly as he was able and it was with no small amount of relief that he saw John still sitting on the bench. Though with some alarm he noticed that John appeared to be talking to a pigeon. As Sherlock drew closer John fell silent and watched him with those same wary eyes. He approached the bench and held up a tray containing two cups of tea and a bag full of steaming food.

“May I sit?” He nodded to the bench beside the retired Army Doctor. John rocked back and forth for a moment, tilted his head like he was trying to comprehend what it was Sherlock had asked, then with slow movements he gathered up the small bag that sat beside him and placed it by his feet while muttering something incoherent. Sherlock, taking that as a yes, sat beside his husband and placed the tray of tea between them, hoping that the space would help make the shorter man more comfortable.

Before Sherlock even had time to pull a single container of food out of the bag, John had snached up a cup of tea and cupped it between his hands. Sherlock offered a soft, sad, chuckle and with a gentle hand held out the other cup.  “Here… this one doesn't have sugar.” Cautiously John accepted the trade and wordlessly brought the cup to his lips, seeming more than content to simply inhale the steam coming off of the hot liquid. Sherlock began to pull container after container of food out of the bag, and placed them beside the tray.

“Wasn’t sure what you wanted… so I got a few of your favorites.” He passed John a fork and smiled as their fingers met. His smile vanished, however, when he felt the cold chill of John’s skin snake down his, much warmer, skin. “Please, John, help yourself.” They sat in silence, and even though Sherlock assumed this was the first hot meal John had consumed in ages, John ate slowly. They sat, and sat, until Sherlock couldn't handle the silence anymore. He swiveled in his seat and bent a leg up onto the bench.

“John? Will you look at me? Just for a moment?” John's eyes flitted around the ground, the bench, and finally settled on Sherlock's hands that were folded over his knee. Figuring this was as much as he was going into get Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. “Will you come home? You can stay in your old room. I don't care. Well, yes I care, but…” Sherlock closed his mouth, he didn't need to start rambling. John was already confused enough, he didn't add too it. “I just care that you are safe and warm.” John looked up with sad eyes and fidgeted with his ring.

“Not real… Trick…” He muttered and went back to rocking back and forth while tapping his hands on his lag.

“I assure you, I am very real. And I'll prove it to you. Even if it takes the rest of our lives. Please… Come home. Warm bed, hot shower, Mrs. Hudson's cooking?”

“Mmmmmm trick. No…. Saw you, watched you. No pulse. Trick.” John's voice was hoarse, broken, and hardly above a whisper. But it stabbed through Sherlock's heart like a knife, being both glad to hear it, and heartbroken at how it sounded.

Sherlock sat back and sighed. This was going to be harder than he originally thought. But his deceit had been well planned, and well executed. While he expected an angry John upon his arrival, he had not expected this. Never this, and he found himself wishing John were shouting, yelling at him, telling him he was an idiot and he wanted a divorce. Not staring at him with eyes that spoke of years of hardship, of abuse, both self and otherwise inflicted, of nights spent shivering in a dark corner. He pulled out his mobile and began tapping away widely on it. After a few minutes he dug his fingers in his hair and sighed.

“If you won't come home, then at least hear me out.” Sherlock stared at John until the doctor grew restless and blinked. “There is a room, at the Mandeville, set aside for you. The cost is covered, and will be covered for however long you decide to stay there. Any night, any day. Any time. You just give them your name. No questions asked. Inside you will find clothes, clean and warm. Room service is taken care of as well. Anything you order. You just ask. There is a mobile in the room… should you want to contact me. Or, I'll be here every day, this bench, noon every day. That is a promise, John. Please, tell me… Do you understand?”

“Yes.” John nodded and stared down the road in the direction of the hotel.

“May I call you a cab?” Sherlock scooted closer to John. Judging by the smell, it had been at least two weeks since John had bathed and changed his clothes, and he knew John couldn't refuse the prospect of a warm bath. Though broken, he was still the same stubborn, prideful man deep down inside.

“Yes.” John nodded again and stood, picked up his bag and hastily stuffed the leftover food inside it, casting side glances to see if he'd need to stake his claim over it.

“John?” Sherlock stood and gently placed a hand on John's shoulder, surprised when the man didn't pull away. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Mmmm…” John moaned and rocked on the balls of his feet, staring at Sherlock's hand, at the ring on his finger. “Shave… Want to shave…”

“Barber or do you want to do it yourself?” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and waited for the answer, ready to type a command to one of the members of his homeless network. .

“You.” John said and laughed wildly.

“Me?” Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He used to shave John's face for him. It had started when Sherlock had needed to experiment with how a straight edged razor was held, to determine who the murderer was in a case they were working on. But as it turned out, John loved the way his face felt afterward, and though Sherlock wouldn't admit it, he loved doing it. “When?” He asked, hoping he didn't seem too excited.

“Morning.” John cackled and squinted into the setting sun. Whether he was laughing at the sun, or an unsaid joke, Sherlock wasn't sure. But both prospects alarmed him.

“Morning.” Sherlock agreed, beginning to lead the thin man to the street, his hand placed gently between the once strong shoulder blades. He hailed a taxi, ensured that John got into the back alright, then leaned down to look inside at the driver. “Take this man to the Mandeville. No questions asked, just take him, make sure he goes inside and then you may leave.” Sherlock pulled out more than enough money to over the short trip and handed the driver a generous tip. He looked back at the backseat and a sudden thought came to mind, before the driver had time to pull away he opened the back door and held out his hand, palm up. In the center of his palm sat his ring, and he held it out for John to take.

“I'll be back for that tomorrow. Do you understand?”

John's fingers slowly reached up, then growing bolder they plucked the ring from Sherlock's hand and darted back down to his lap where he held the ring just above his. Sherlock shut the door and stepped back. The last he saw of John for the night was John holding both rings up into the setting sun, reading their inscriptions. John's ring read _HOLMES_ on the inside, while Sherlock's read _WATSON_. At the time, Sherlock thought it was a stupid idea, but now he hopped it would make John realize he wasn't just a trick, that it was really him.

It was with a heavy heart that Sherlock watched the taxi drive away. Once it was out of view, however, Sherlock was on his mobile, reaching out to his homeless network again. During his walk to Baker Street he had half a dozen people watching John, ready to report any and all movement, and gave a handful of people orders to start working on the case that Mycroft had deemed worthy enough to bring him back for.  

It took Mrs. Hudson one hour and seventeen minutes to stop fussing over Sherlock. When she finally left him alone, Sherlock closed the door behind him and stared at the dusty flat. Sucking in a breath, and fighting the empty feeling that threatened to take over his being, he sat in his chair, careful not to hurt his back, and nervously checked his mobile for messages. He had three new texts and with slightly trembling fingers he unlocked his phone. One was about Mycroft's case, and two were about John.

** “Status unchanged, target has gone to sleep. Will report in the morning.” **

Next message.

**“Has entered Hotel.”** The time-stamp read 16:45

And the last message.

** “All entrances covered. No chance of him slipping past. Will rotate watch at midnight.” **

After sending strict instructions that at any change, either for the case or regarding his husband, they were to send someone in person if he didn't respond by text within three minutes, Sherlock locked his phone and stared at John's empty chair. He had dreamed of this night for months. The thought of returning, returning to John, had been the one thing that kept him fighting every day. And now here he was, alone. All because his stupid brother hadn't let him tell John, and had stopped all attempt at reaching John before they went through. Now he was alone, and it took all of his being to call upon the mask of indifference he'd honed for so many years.

With one final glance at John's chair Sherlock stood and retreated to their bedroom, placing his mobile beside him. Though he wanted to stay up, to think, to find a way to bring John home quickly, he needed sleep. Other than the short nap he had been allowed on the plane, he hadn't slept in nearly a week, which even for him was too long. Trying not to think about the empty half of the bed, Sherlock shed his clothes and crawled under the covers, and settled in on his stomach. After a few minutes he felt the warm fingers of sleep begin to wrap around him. With his last bit of consciousness he set an alarm for 5am, allowing himself a solid 11 hours of sleep, and sent a text to the mobile Mycroft had left in the hotel for John.

“Baker Street is unlocked, should you want to come home.  If not, I’ll be awake very early, please text me when you would like me to come over, and whether you'd prefer straight or electric razors. I love you, John. -SH”

He locked his mobile again and was asleep nearly instantly, his fingers still wrapped around his mobile.

  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


John caught a glimpse of a tall figure just across the road that made his heart do somersaults in his chest for the briefest of moments. The man looked like Sherlock, even had dark hair and a blue scarf. Dismissing it as a random person about his business he continued to stare at the restaurant, remembering happier days. He'd proposed there, shortly after the Baskerville case. Sherlock had said yes, of course John had known he would. His memories of getting down on one knee, and seeing the genuine surprise in Sherlock's face were shattered when that same stranger crossed the street and crouched in front of him.

“John?” The man whispered, staring deep into his eyes with a wide smile across his face. _“That smile… He only smiled for me. Looks so much like him.”_ John heard himself let out a groan and with a long sigh focused on a small stone just off to the side. _“Can't be… Not him… Trick. Mycroft sent him. Wants me off the streets. Winter… Doesn't want my death on his head. Nope trick. Not Sherlock.”_

And then the stranger began to talk. Began to weave a tale of how he'd left to save him, how he'd fought some man named Moran. There had been a prison… But apparently it was okay now. He was here. He was home. John had to give Mycroft props. To go find someone who not only looked like Sherlock but spoke like him…  and even, John took in a deep breath, smelled like him too. _“Guilt, that's what this is. He's guilty.”_ Mycroft had set up a bank account for John shortly after he'd left Baker Street, he'd hand delivered him the bank card. But, apart from checking the balance of the account, John refused to use it. Apparently Mycroft's guilt was worth quite a bit of money, because John could have retired happily on a private island somewhere. And that was just the first month, the sum only got bigger with each passing month.

He was so lost in his internal anger for Mycroft that the next thing he knew he was agreeing with  the lookalike, agreeing to wait for him, that he would stay here. Part of him just wanted to see that familiar smile, one last time. While the other part of him longed for a hot meal. When was the last time he'd had a hot meal? Or a bath even? He thought, it had been two weeks, three days, and judging by the position of the sun, 12 hours since the last time someone took pity on him and had giving him a hot meal. Since then it had been scraps and whatever else he could find. The bath had more or less been the last time it rained, cold as it was, he had a small amount of soap left and he made due. He didn't know what he would do this winter, if he even survived the elements. Time would tell.

Fake Sherlock returned, with food, and tea, and John almost said thank you. He didn't, however, didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of hearing a thank you. When Fake Sherlock offered him the tea without sugar, John became confused. Mycroft didn't care how he took his tea. Only Sherlock did and that was only after Sherlock had drugged him, tried too, to prove a point. Doubt crept into the back of his mind and he began to wonder, to wonder if this could possible be Sherlock. He'd seen Sherlock a lot in the last two years, but he'd never been real. Of course not, he was dead. But what if John was now dead, and this was somehow the afterlife, what if… _“No, that's just as insane as you are now.”_

Fake Sherlock pulled out takeaway container after takeaway container out of a bag and placed it on the bench between them. John's stomach growled at the sight of the food. Combined, it was more than he'd eaten in months. He ate slowly, to avoid getting sick, he'd seen so many of the homeless he lived among devour a meal only to throw it up later. When he'd finished eating, Fake Sherlock turned and faced him, folding his hands over his knee. A flash of silver caught John's eyes.

“John? Will you look at me? Just for a moment?” John tried, he flicked his eyes around the man sitting beside him, but his eyes fell back to the silver ring. That tiny flicker of something, hope, doubt, fear, whatever it was, it flared up again. Every fiber of his being wanted this man sitting next to him to be his husband. But he’d been alone for so long, and he’d seen Sherlock so many times; held so many conversations with him. And every time it had proven to only be the delusions of a grief stricken man.

“Not real… Trick…” John fought the urge to reach out and touch the man beside him. Didn’t want to be disappointed by an empty bench. Instead he tapped his hands on his lap, rocked back and forth and focused on what he knew what real. Despite Fake Sherlock’s assurance that he was real, John shook his head sharply and blinked.

“Come home. Warm bed, hot shower, Mrs. Hudson's cooking?”

“Mmmmmm trick. No…. Saw you, watched you. No pulse. Trick.” He whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. And then Fake Sherlock was on his mobile. And shortly after that he was talking again. This time telling him about a room at a hotel he had waiting for him. A five star hotel at that. And he was promising him clothes, and the hotel would have a bath. Oh how he longed for a bath, to soak his aching bones. While he wasn’t one to accept charity, it was bath that won him over.

John allowed himself to be seated in the back of a taxi, his bag containing his few precious belonging (and their leftover food) by his side. As the door closed, and Fake Sherlock gave the driver instructions John allowed himself to rest his head against the back of the seat and take a deep breath.

Expecting the cab to drive off, he was instead startled when the door to his right opened and Fake Sherlock leaned into the car, palm up. Something small and silver was in his outstretched hand and with trembling fingers John plucked it out of his hand. Once the car was moving held the ring up just above his and let out a gasp when he saw the word _WATSON_ inscribed on the inside.

A faint smile crept over his face upon remembering how Sherlock had rolled his eyes when John insisted they get their rings inscribed. When they’d gotten married, neither of them at changed their names. “Watson and Holmes, they just go together. Like salt and pepper.” Sherlock had insisted, taunting him with feather light kisses and a smile that promised sex once they were alone.

All eyes were on John as he walked into the hotel. His mind told him it was just a trick, that he'd be thrown back out onto the streets at any moment. The walk up to the front desk seemed to take an eternity, the voices in his head telling him he was nothing more than a joke did little to help. Ignoring the stares and snickers John cleared his throat and addressed the young woman behind the desk.

“I uh,” John closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm as someone pointed at him and laughed. “I have a room reserved for me. Under the name John Watson?” John's free hand was now twitching at his side and the hand holding his bag began to tremble. The woman’s long fingernails clacked away on her computer and after a moment her face lit up, clearly surprise when she found his name in the system.

“Ah. Yes, Doctor Watson.” She smiled at him before returning her attention to the computer. “Quite a nice room.” She said and after a few more minutes she handed him a set of keys. With one last smile she told him where he'd find his room and said “Please enjoy your stay.”

It didn't take long for John to find his room, and when he opened the door he let out a little gasp. Though it wasn't much, the simple room with the one bed was more than he'd had in months. Aside from the shopping bags on the bed, the first thing John noticed was the door that clearly led into the bathroom.

Closing the hall door behind him John locked it and placed his bag on the floor. Once his hands were free he immediately began tearing at his soiled clothing, grimacing as the filthy shirt scraped over his face. He was naked before even making it half way to the bathroom, and with an emotional sign he pushed the door open and began sobbing when he saw the tub.

Though it wasn't anything fancy, surly wasn't a jacuzzi, John felt like he hadn't seen anything quite as lovely as that simple bathtub in quite a while. With trembling fingers he turned the water on and stepped in, closing the curtain behind him. As the water warmed he let it cascade down his back, watching the drain as two weeks worth of filth washed away.

Once the water ran clear John plugged the drain and sat in the center of the tub, resting his chin on his chest. _“I could stay here forever.”_ He thought, completely lost in the ecstasy of the moment. He eventually washed, reveling in the smell of the soap and shampoo, and only got out once the water began to run cold.

He ran the towel over his hair, noting that he'd need a haircut a as well, if Fake Sherlock was up to it. Wrapping the towel around his thin waist he shuffled into the other room, casting a look at his soiled clothing scattered over the floor and deciding he'd look into getting them washed tomorrow.

Tucking the towel tighter around his waist he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the tan curtains covering the window. Forgetting that the bed was covered with shopping bags he went to lean back and felt one of them crunch between his body and the bed. He rolled over and peered inside the bag, and it was with no small surprise that he found a oatmeal jumper inside. Curiosity got the best of him and soon he had all the bags emptied and tossed on the floor and he was staring at a wide assortment of clothes.

He put on a pair of flannel pajamas and moved the rest of the clothes to a nearby chair and crawled back into bed, this time getting under the covers. It took him a while to get comfortable, his body not being used to soft surfaces. But finally, he rolled onto his stomach, stuffed his arms under the pillows and let out a deep sigh as he felt sleep beginning to take him.

Just as John was about to allow sleep to take its hold over him a loud buzzing startled him. He looked over at the table beside his bed and saw a mobile illuminated against the darkness of the room. Drawing in a shaking breath he picked up the mobile and read the text.

_ “Baker Street is unlocked, should you want to come home.  If not, I’ll be awake very early, please text me when you would like me to come over, and whether you'd prefer straight or electric razors. I love you, John. -SH” _

John stared at the screen for a few moments and then forced himself to exhale. He fought the urge to throw the mobile across the room and instead placed it back where he had found it. After that it took him a while to find sleep again, as images of Sherlock shadowed his thoughts. In the end, he cried himself to sleep, his pillow wet from his tears. But for the first time in months John was able to sleep through the night without fear of being stabbed for his few precious belongings.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been awake for nearly four hours, and though he’d sent John a text, alerting him to his wakefulness, he’d heard nothing from his husband. It was nearing noon when Sherlock’s mobile finally buzzed. Though the message was short, it made Sherlock’s heart race.

**“Straight. Need my hair cut as well.”**

Sherlock grabbed the bag containing the straight razor kit, dashed into the bathroom to grab scissors and in a matter of minutes was out the door. Out on the pavement he spun in a circle, suddenly wondering which was his best option to get there. By taxi it was roughly 8 minutes, if the traffic was light, the tube wasn’t going to be very helpful at the moment as the next train he needed wouldn’t arrive for another 6 minutes, and walking would take him 13 minutes, if he walked quickly. In order to not arrive out of breath, Sherlock settled on a taxi and was soon grumbling that he hadn’t thought to call ahead for one.

“When it comes to John Watson, I’m as daft as the rest of them…” He grumbled as a a taxi finally pulled up the the curb.

“The Mandeville. And quickly!” He slid into the back seat and tapped his foot impatiently as the driver waited to merge back out onto the street. Six and a half minutes later the driver pulled up to the front of the hotel and looked wide eyed as Sherlock tossed him a note that more than covered the short drive. Walking as quickly as he deemed appropriate Sherlock entered the hotel and headed directly towards John’s room.

It wasn’t until he stood outside the door that he began to feel nervous. What if John continued to deny it was him… what if… Sherlock shook his head and took in a deep breath. He couldn’t allow himself to think about this, couldn’t allow himself to think. John Watson was as unpredictable as the wind, he needed to go in with an open mind. He needed to be willing to accept whatever it was John would, or wouldn’t, give him today. With no small amount of trepidation John knocked on the door and held his breath as he waited.

There was the sound of a lock being turned and then the door opened. John stood there, still in his pajamas, looking at the floor by Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock smiled softly at the man before him and took a step forward stopping when John’s hands twitched and he let out a faint moan.

“John?” May I come in?” He held out the bag containing the razors, giving John something to focus on. After a moment John nodded slightly and stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to enter. John shut the door behind him, this time leaving it unlocked. “May I sit?” Sherlock nodded to the bed, the only open spot as piles of clothing still sat on the chair. When John said nothing Sherlock simply leaned against the wall.

“Sit…” John rocked back and forth and nodded. “Yes. Sit.” Sherlock cautiously moved around John and sat on the bed near the pillows. He patted the spot next to him and gestured for John to join him. John stared where Sherlock’s hand had just been and Sherlock actually gave him a surprised smile when John sat beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments until Sherlock turned, back against the headboard and regarded John with soft eyes.

“Did you sleep?” He folded his hands on his lap and fingered the spot where his ring belonged. John appeared rested, and it made him appear less ragged.

“Yes.” John nodded and looked down at Sherlock’s hand, noting a tan line from where his ring had been.

“One word. Very efficient.” Sherlock noted with a chuckle. And despite everything John smiled. It was small, and lacked warmth, but it was a smile.

“I missed you, John…” Sherlock flattened his hands out on his lap and tried to judge what was going on behind John’s expressionless face. “I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

“I…” John shook his head, closed his mouth and crawled over the bed and sat next to Sherlock, making sure to keep a fair amount of space between them. “I…” he tried again, “want you… to be you.” He rolled his head sideways against the headboard and looked sadly over at Sherlock. “But… you’re a fake. Sent by Mycroft.”

“And why would Mycroft send me, if I were a fake.” Sherlock tilted his head, looking at John and trying not to think about the fact that they were only a few inches apart.

“Guilt.” John shrugged and looked forward. “Didn’t want me out on the streets. Getting cold. Doesn’t want my death on his shoulders.”

“But, John?” Sherlock placed a hand on John’s knee. “Why would he feel guilty over my death? He didn’t orchestrate it. It wasn’t his fault. So what does he have to feel guilty over?”

John remained silent for a while, pondering the question. He’d never considered that Mycroft had no reason to feel guilty, if Sherlock had actually died. But then Mycroft had given him money, and gone out of his way to try and care for him, in his own sick and twisted way. John could see guilt written all over the man. But why…

“He’d…” John began slowly, putting pieces together that he’d never thought of before. “only feel guilty if you were actually alive. If he were hiding you from me. If he knew something I didn’t.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded and turned his hand over, so it was palm up on John’s leg. “touch me, John. I’m real.” Tentatively John placed his hand over Sherlock’s and let out a sob as their fingers met. It was a perfect match. The tips of John’s fingers fell at exactly the same spot the should have, just reaching past the first knuckle.

“I need you to be you.” John squeezed Sherlock's hand and scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Can't… Anymore… Life without you.” John leaned his head back. His voice broke as he continue. “It's been terrible, unbearable really. Thought about just jumping in the Thames. Thought about joining you. But your blasted brother follows me everywhere. It's why I left Baker Street, managed to find a bit of privacy on the streets, there are places even your brother doesn't know about.”

“My brother?” Sherlock gave a weak smile and scooted a fraction of an inch closer to John. “You admit then, that he's my brother? Which in turn, means I’m me?”

“I…” John offered a choked laugh though the sobs that now shook his body. “I don't know.” He shook s head and sniffled, wiping snot from his nose on his shoulder.

“Come here?” Sherlock gently pulled his hand away and slipped his arm around John's shoulders. John leaned stiffly against Sherlock at first but then, as he began crying harder Sherlock tightened his hold on his husband and buried his nose in John's hair. “Christ you’ve lost weight.” He pressed a kiss to John's hair and wrapped his fingers around his bony shoulder. John huffed in response but relaxed into Sherlock's embrace.

“Just… shut up and hold me.” John nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck.

“As you wish, husband.” Sherlock carefully pressed his back against the headboard and sighed as John’s slim frame leaned against him. The added pressure on his back did little to ease his pain, but it was worth it. Everything was worth it, because John Watson was in his arms, and he was alive. Sherlock buried his head against John’s hair and it wasn’t until John pulled away and looked at him with no small amount of concern that he realized he was crying.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry,  Sherlock.” John cautiously reached up and ran his thumb just below Sherlock’s eye. “Except…” He trailed off, but kept his hand flat against Sherlock’s cheek, inspecting every inch of the detective’s face.

“At our wedding.” Sherlock smiled and covered John’s hand with his. He watched John for a while, leaning his face against their hands until he saw something unfamiliar flicker in John’s eyes. Doubt. He’d never seen John project doubt in his direction before, and it was highly unsettling. Not wishing for John to pull back and clam up again Sherlock simply wiped his face and gave a small smile.

“Well, it isn’t often you get to hold your husband for the first time in two years.” With a soft kiss to John’s temple he glanced over at the small bag he’d brought.

“Shall we? I brought scissors as well, if you wanted me to trim your hair.”

“Mmm, ta.” John nodded and slowly pulled away. If Sherlock had closed his eyes, that moment would have felt perfectly natural. Instead Sherlock moved off of the bed and walked towards the clothes covered chair in the corner. He cleaned off the chair and nodded to the bag.

“Grab that, and come to the bathroom. It’ll be easier to clean hair off of the tile in there instead of the carpet in here.” And in his true manner, Sherlock swept off his coat, tossed it onto the bed and with long strides moved into the bathroom, taking the chair with him. If John needed to see him act like himself, then so be it.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock called out from the bathroom and allowed himself a small smirk as the sounds of John scurrying around the room filled the bathroom. Moments later John appeared.

“Shirt off, and sit here please. I don't have a way to recline you here, so you'll have to be exceptionally still.” John nodded did as he was instructed.

“When we're finished I'll tidy up while you shower, then we'll go grab something to eat. I have a case that needs my attention and it might be a few hours before I'll be able to feed you again.” As there was now an incredibly sharp blade running along his face John simply blinked in response. He knew Sherlock had timed it this way. So he couldn't back out, couldn't say he'd stay here. This was the husband he knew and loved, and his heart yearned for this to be real, for this not to be some cruel joke.

It didn't take Sherlock long to slip into a steady rhythm, he'd slide the blade across John's jaw, wipe it on the cloth he had over John's shoulder, and repeat. Fifteen minutes later John was looking more like himself, all that was left was his hair.

“You sure you trust me, to cut your hair?” Sherlock asked as he cleaned and put the razor away. I've never done it before.

“If I just willingly let you repeatedly drag a sharp blade across my skin, I think I can trust you to cut my hair.” John offered a smile and wrapped the towel around his shoulders. “Already look homeless. Not like you can make it look any worse.”

“Quite right. Well then, sit up, and tilt your head up a bit.” With that Sherlock brandished the scissors and gently ran his hands through John's hair. It was trial and error at first, but after a while whole Sherlock realized it was easier after wetting John's hair and it wasn't long until John began looking like himself.

“Right.” Sherlock stepped back and regarded his handy work. “You look quite dashing, if I may say so. Now in the shower with you.” he added, brushing loose hair from John’s shoulder. “And start thinking of where you want to have lunch.” Sherlock shook the towel off and began to push the hair on the floor into a pile. He'd forgotten to grab a broom, but still this was better than leaving all over the floor.

John stood beside the chair for a moment and watched Sherlock awkwardly. He fiddled with his shirt before pulling it over his head. He then stood and shifted in his spot.

“Oh for god’s sake. I've seen you naked before. In fact,” Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, standing inches in front of him. “I happen to know that you have a scar. Right….” Sherlock laced an arm around John's hips and placed a finger just above his right arse cheek. “here.”

“Freckle…” John’s face lit up and in a flash his hands were at Sherlock’s hips fumbling with his belt.

“John? Whatever are you doing?” With no small amount of perplexity, Sherlock watched as John tore at his belt, and fumbled with his trousers. It wasn’t long before John was kneeling in front of him and pushing Sherlock’s trousers down to his knees..

“You have a freckle…” John mumbled, pushing Sherlock’s trousers down even more. “In a place, that no one would think to replicate. Not even your brother.” Cautiously John pulled at the elastic waistband of Sherlock’s pants, lowering the front of them inch by inch. As a mound of pubic hair came into view John slowed and glanced up at Sherlock, as if asking for permission.

“Whatever you need, John.” Sherlock said gently, with that he nodded and placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

John pushed the material down a bit more and as Sherlock’s cock came into view he sat back and gasped… There, just at the base, was a freckle. The same freckle John had lavished with attention so many times before. It had been a source of teasing at the most inappropriate times. Once, during a debriefing at NYS with Lestrade, John had leaned over and whispered to Sherlock  _“Just you wait until we get home… I’m going to kiss that freckle of yours.”_  After that Sherlock had to button his coat up to cover his erection, earning a smirk from his husband.

“It’s you…” John placed his hand over his mouth and let out a loud sob. Without bothering to fix his pants or trousers Sherlock sank to his knees and took both of John’s trembling hands in his.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, John.” He spoke softly and pulled the blond into his arms feeling tears well up in his eyes as well.

“You’ve come home?” John sobbed as his fingers gripped Sherlock’s shirt in a vice like grasp. “For good?”

“I’ve come home.” Sherlock nodded and wrapped his arms around John. They sat there, both of them crying on the cold bathroom floor, for longer than Sherlock bothered to count. It wasn’t until John began to kiss him and as the kisses turned heavy and passionate John tried to pushed him him onto his back on the floor that Sherlock let on that he was in pain. With a wince and a low moan Sherlock gently removed John’s hands from his back and offered a sad smile. “I’ve come home… but at a cost.”

Noting the pain on Sherlock’s face the doctor inside John rose to the surface and in a matter of seconds John was behind Sherlock, helping the detective out of his suit jacket. He tossed it to the floor and sat patiently as Sherlock undid the top buttons of his dress shirt. Once loose enough John pushed it off of his shoulders and had to bite his bottom lip to keep from gasping.

Sherlock’s alabaster skin was now marred with red welts, cuts, bruises, burns and other abrasions. John knew these marks well, he’d been trained to treat torture victims, and though he’d never had this misfortune of seeing him first hand, he knew exactly what they were. Whatever Sherlock had been through, he was lucky to have come home.

“Sherlock…” John let out a whimper and sat back, desperately wanting to be able to comfort Sherlock.

“It looks worse than it is, I assure you.” Sherlock re buttoned his shirt and stood up, offering John a hand up. “Mostly.”

“Mostly my arse.” John muttered, taking the hand and standing himself.

“The worst of it is bandaged.” Sherlock shrugged, fixed his pants, re-buttoned his trousers and replaced his suit jacket. “Now hurry up and shower, Husband.” He turned to step out of the bathroom but John caught him by the elbow and spun him around into an amours embrace.

As their lips met John's hand snaked around Sherlock's neck and settled itself in the curls just at the nape of his neck. With a soft moan John’s lips pulled away and curled up into his first genuine smile in years.

“Right then.” John leaned in for one more kiss and with a happy sigh he finished undressing and stepped into the shower. As he rinsed the loose hairs from his body something occurred to him.

“Sherlock?” He called out hopping he could be heard over the sound of the water.

“Mmm?” Sherlock was by his side in a moment, pulling the shower curtain open enough to look in.

“Mycroft. He's been giving me money, since you left.” John began, unsure if Sherlock knew.

“Yes. I am aware. I also know you refused to touch it. Stubborn twat.”

“Yes well. I'm your stubborn twat now, aren't I?” John looked over and chuckled. “Think he'll take it back, now you you're here?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's hard to guess with my brother.” Sherlock leaned against the wall and watched his husband. “Why?”

“It's quite a bit you know. We could retire, quite happily on it.”

“John…” Sherlock sighed and tried to find a polite way to tell John that retiring was the worst idea he'd ever had.

“No. Nope. No. Not what I meant.” John shook his head and turned the taps off. “Pass me a clean towel?” Sherlock offered him a towel from the stack behind him and he took it. “Mm ta.” He dried off and stepped out, and immediately headed into the other room “What I'm saying,” he continued, “remember what we were planning… Before you… Left?”

“You mean?” Sherlock blinked and auto piloted to the nearest seat. “You… Want…”

“Yes.” John grinned and picked out a dark green number and jeans. “Why not?”

“John?” Sherlock continued to blink as he tried to fathom what John was suggesting. Months before he'd been forced to fake his own death, he and John were in the early stages of adopting. They had been so close, and then Moriarty had forced Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock… It's perfect… uufff…” John huffed as he pulled the jumper on over his head and reappeared grinning ear to ear. “It'll take months to process,” he stepped into a pair of pants and continued, “the paperwork alone will take ages. And this time, instead…” John, leaving his jeans forgotten on the bed, moved to kneel in front of him. “Let's go for the surrogate option. Please?”

“John, this is… A lot to take in.” Sherlock took John’s hands in his and with a swirl of emotions regarded the grinning doctor. “Shouldn’t we take time to think this over? It’s a big…”

“Oi! I’ve had time!” John sighed and instead of simply rolling his eyes John rolled his whole head and gave Sherlock a look that told him he was being perfectly serious. “I’ve had two years, Sherlock! Two years, living every day with the regret that I’d never be able to raise your child! Two years to know that I was alone!” John’s voice had been steadily increasing in volume and he was now very nearly shouting.

“Yes, alright, John.” Sherlock brought one of his hands to John’s face and ran this thumb over his cheek. After a few moments of silence he let out a soft chuckle and ran his fingers along John’s freshly shaven jaw. “Damn, I did a brilliant job.” With a snort that was meant to mask his laughter John pulled away and scowled as he finished dressing.

“Yes, well, we were in the middle of a rather important discussion.” He buttoned his pants and stared, hands on his bony hips, at Sherlock.

“I fail to see what there is to discuss.” Sherlock stood and observed the thin man in front of him. If this was anyone else, Sherlock might have been concerned about his mental health, having gone from being homeless to talking about having a child. But this was John Watson, this was his husband. And when his husband was certain about something, nothing would stop him. He gave John his award winning smile that was reserved only for him and nodded. “As long as this is truly what you want.”

“It is.” John nodded in earnest and in that moment the shadow of the man Sherlock had seen yesterday was gone, and was fully replaced by his husband.

“It’s what I want too.” Sherlock spoke softly and wrapped his arms around John, nuzzling his face into his still damp neck. “I love you John.”

“Mmm…” John let out a low moan as he carefully placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “I love you too, so very fucking much.”

“Now, is that any way for a father to talk?” Sherlock laughed and tightened his grip around John.

John was saved from answering when his stomach omitted a loud growl that made Sherlock pull away and grab his coat.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.” John nodded, and picked up a simply black coat off of the bed.

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock asked as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

“Angelo’s.” John looked around and something silver caught his eye, he walked over to the small table beside the bed and gently scooped up Sherlock's wedding ring. With a playful smirk he made a show of pocketing it and when Sherlock made a grab for it he tisked and shook his head. "No way. You'll have to earn it back.  You once promised never to take it off. I think... a nice dinner, plus some extra curricular activities after should be enough for you to earn it back, don't you?"

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Christmas Day The Following Year**

They’d spent Christmas home this year, opting to have everyone come to them instead. Mrs. Hudson had gone and outdone herself, cooking enough food to feed all of Baker Street. Once they’d all stuffed themselves silly, Sherlock had entertained them all by playing a few songs on his violin, even agreeing to wear the “Horrid” pair of antlers.

But that was hours ago, now they were alone, their guests long since left for their own homes. John was now mostly asleep curled up on the sofa, his head resting on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was so intently focused on watching the rise and fall of John’s chest that he almost didn’t hear the slight buzz coming from his phone. And he almost didn’t answer it, expecting it to be his parents, informing him of their safe arrival home. However, just in the nick of time he picked up the phone, pressed answer and held it up to his ear, speaking quietly as not to disturb John.

“Hello?”

“Sherlock?” The woman’s voice sounded out of breath and strained, almost like she was in pain, and it shook him out of his lazy daze. He’d been expecting this call for weeks now. Before she even had time to state the reason for her call he was gently shaking John awake.

“You boy’s best get to hospital. It’s time.”

“On our way.” Sherlock hung up and took John’s face in both his hands, kissing him excitedly on the lips. “Come on, John!” Sherlock bounded off the sofa, leaving John to regain his balance.

“Why?” John righted himself and let out a lazy yawn while stretching. “Case?”

“Even better!” Sherlock tossed him his coat and a scarf, grabbing the bag that had been by the door for the last month.

“You mean?” John fully woke up when he saw Sherlock reach for the bag.

“Yes! We get to meet our children tonight!” Sherlock slung the bag over his shoulders and without waiting for John dashed down the stairs, yelling after him. “I’ll be getting a taxi, do hurry!”

John didn’t need to be asked twice. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long he’d started to think it wasn’t happening. Just over 9 months ago he and Sherlock had both donated sperm, artificially impregnated two eggs, and had a surrogate carry their twins. They’d been told that the chances of both eggs surviving were slim, so they were more than pleased, and a little surprised, when at the first ultrasound they’d heard two heartbeats.

After a rather heated argument, one that left John sleeping on the sofa for the night, they both agreed that the genders of their children should remain a secret until birth. (John being the one who wanted to know as he didn’t relish the idea of shopping for a newborn, with two of them. But after Sherlock promised that he’d make Mycroft babysit them both while they went shopping, John agreed.)

John hurried into his coat, stuffed his feet into his shoes and half ran, half hobbled down the stairs after his husband, his scarf trailing behind him. Out on the sidewalk he hardly felt the cold, and didn't seem to mind that the falling snow kept going up his nose (from his heavy breathing) and melting in his nasal cavity, making him sneeze more than once.

The ten minute taxi ride felt like it took hours, and both men nearly vibrated out of their skins as the car slowed to a stop. Sherlock tossed the driver a few notes and together they stepped out into the cool night. Snow was now falling heavily as John walked around the back of the taxi and slipped a hand in Sherlock’s.

“I don’t think I’ve never been quite this nervous before.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and sucked in a lungful of cold air. “Shall we?”

“Oh god yes.”

**12 Hours Later**

The delivery had gone smoothly, and the twins were born at 11:32pm and 11:54pm on Christmas Day. “The best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.” John would say each year as the family sat by the fireplace on Christmas morning.

Lilith, or Lily for short was the first to make her entrance. She came out screaming at the world for disturbing her sleep, a mop of dark hair adorned her head. Thomas took his time, he was born nearly a half hour after his sister, and seemed to be more than content to finally be out where he could stretch. Lily, with her dark hair and sharp eyes took after Sherlock, while Thomas was the spitting image of John.

Their first night back in the flat was stressful for all four of them. John and Sherlock were both exhausted from having stayed up all night, pacing the halls until they were born, and then pacing some more waiting for the okay to go home. It wasn’t until Mrs. Hudson came up, and told them both to go get some sleep that everyone seemed to relax. The twins fell sound asleep the moment John and Sherlock stopped fretting over them, and it was to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson softly singing that the two new fathers fell asleep, wrapped in eachothers arms.

 

 

*SEE NOTE FOR HOW I WANTED TO END THIS

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I WANTED to end this... in a really sad way.
> 
> Was going to have John wake up from a dream, homeless, cold, depressed, and Sherlock still dead. Was then going to have John kill himself... But a friend told me that was far too cruel. I guess you have her to thank for me sparing your feelings.
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
